


symptoms of a life lesson hard earned

by dykeingale



Category: Escape from Furnace - Alexander Gordon Smith
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Humour, Post-Silent Night, Pre-Canon, Pre-Lockdown, Silent Night Spoilers, Swearing, mentions of Kevin and Ambrose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeingale/pseuds/dykeingale
Summary: Donovan's never alone - until he is. But the feeling of loneliness lasts all the same.





	symptoms of a life lesson hard earned

"Okay, well, I live in an apartment, I don't got a chimney, so how's Santa Claus getting in there? The toilet?"

"Well, it's no wonder he's not giving you presents! You're pooping in the one place he can enter!"

He's nine years old, the first time he notices.

Though his teeth were chattering from the bitter wind, nothing could stop Donovan's laughter as he walks home with his classmate. Donovan still isn't sure how they manage to veer the conversation into the logistics of Santa breaking and entering homes.

It's only been a few days since November crept past his noticing and merged into December, but a generous dusting of snow powders every roof and every lawn they've passed so far. Just the sight of the snow is enough for Donovan to shove his own freezing fingers into his coat pockets, suffering the consequences of forgetting his gloves at home.

His friend seems to notice this, and extends a gloved hand expectantly towards Donovan. There must've been something about the look on Donovan's face that seems hilarious, as his friend snorts a laugh and urges, "C'mon, I have warm hands." The smile on his face falters at the silence that follows. Then quieter, "It's only us here, y’know."

It _is_ true. His friend lives on a tiny side street, adjacent to the small school they attend and on route to Donovan's home. It is the reason why their moms agreed to let the two of them walk home without supervision. As far as Donovan could see they were the only two people standing out on the icy sidewalks, the lack of an adult following their trails would usually make Donovan giddy, adventurous even. But he can't help feeling more exposed in that moment, ready to be chastised for this stupidly small gesture.

The sounds of heavy huffs snaps Donovan to finally notice his friend make a big show of blowing air into the palms of his gloves, white tendrils of his breath disappearing nearly as quickly as they arrive. Wiggling his fingers with a triumphant grin, his friend chirps out, "See that? Extra warm now!"

Donovan wrinkles his face, "Yeah, warm with your stink breath." He drops his disgusted facade with a giggle and accepts the offered hand, grimacing a little at the damp cotton blend of his gloves. (There was no doubt the kid could ever pass down a snowball fight, even if said snow was half icy mush and half mud.) Both of their grips are a little too tight, cutting off more blood flow than Donovan would've liked, but it was nothing less than steady.

They walk hand in hand like that every step of the way. Though Donovan can't shake the feeling of being watched by strangers lurking behind drawn curtains and tinted car windows, that old telltale giddiness ignites itself inside of him. By the time they've reached the end of the block, his hands are trembling, colder even more so than where they had been curled up pitifully in his pocket. At least, that's the easiest answer to write it off as.

The two kids stand in front of a small but humble little bungalow, the same one they always part ways at. This time, Donovan can't help but feel a slight twinge of disappointment at the sight of it. And a little bit more as his friend's hand slips out of his, somewhat hastily. Without missing a beat his friend fixes Donovan with a cheeky grin and an unexpected hug. "Carl, let's do this again tomorrow, okay?"

Even with the embarrassment that comes with hearing his first name, Donovan nods quickly, mumbling a small "yeah" in reply. They both know that they'll be thinking about that quaint little gesture a long, long time. Just like how Donovan knows this hug would end, and he'd have to go home to face something he'd rather not think about for the rest of the evening. But for now, he feels the comfort another boy gives him and doesn't pull away.

 

* * *

 

 

He's twelve the second time he really notices it. Apparently, Adam did too. 

It wasn't much of a secret that Donovan follows Adam by his heels all around Furnace, sue him, he couldn't help it.

He remembers everything about his first day, the transfer from the prison above ground, already scared to the bone from the months he spent there. The familiar reek of acidic bile burning at the back of his throat, the symphony of shouts and sobs, the jostle of the speed bumps causing him and the boy beside him to knock his head hard against the caged glass windows. Donovan knew he was sat on bus full of freaks and murderers, unable to pretend he wasn't like one of them.

Even without the acknowledgement of the crimes of the boys surrounding him, Donovan realised Furnace would be so much worse, by the proxy that anyone who could've made a prison underground for kids would not fuck around at all. He'd come to realise how awfully, unfortunately right he was about that instinct.

But there was Adam.

Quiet, unrelenting Adam.

Donovan's constant wide eyed adoration and mimicking got to the point that Adam had jokingly compared imprinting ducklings to his wide eyed little cellmate. The honest to god truth be told, Adam never really seemed to mind.

Still, with the idea of being a pest it doesn't take a long time for Donovan to quiet down voicing his troubled thoughts. Something he'd certainly practised well before his incarceration. Those early days, Donovan keeps the peace, asking questions only when he needed to, only joking when he accidentally made Adam laughed.

There's also a list of other important things Donovan also does not do. Like tell Adam about the glove incident way back when. Or ask about what Adam thought about the other boys, beyond the facts of who to stay away from. Certainly not share the fact that under the sweat and grease and dirt some of those boys had the saddest eyes yet the most blinding smiles. He learns fast that inside Furnace, that the key to survival is the way one manages to tiptoe the lines because the smallest misstep will at best get you targeted under the feet of abuse, day after day. And at worse; killed.

Donovan doesn't think he's a stupid boy, but he’s not an entirely convincing one.

He and Adam have been talking more often as of late, something in the other boy’s small smile eager and encouraging to let Donovan loosen his tongue a little more. This evening they let their legs dangle from the top bunk as they sat side by side. And as the conversation shifts into what had been like in the world above, well, Donovan makes a decision.

“I had a girlfriend back home,” he blurts out. Adam tilts his head at that declaration, his lips pursed slightly.

“Was she cute?” Adam asks.

“Prettiest bird I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” Donovan insists. “You should’ve seen here, ain’t nobody else ever coming close.”

Adam listens silently, eyebrows threatening to reach his hairline as he lets Donovan go on.

"Kiddo," Adam interrupts, his voice carefully light. "You don't need to fool me."

That knocks the air out of Donovan more than he would like to admit, feeling his posture stiffen under Adam’s careful scrutiny.

"For your sake and mine, we don’t gotta go around all make pretend, I’m not going to say anything about that." There is an exhale of a laugh. "But nobody told you how crap you are at lying, huh."

But Adam is wrong. Donovan doesn’t think of it as a lie.

It’s more of a reminder.

Just like how grass is soft and green, the sun is bright and the memory of its warmth an inviting indulgence. If he ever gets out, he’ll run, he’ll dance, he will preach his praises until his throat runs ragged, and he will get himself a girl.

Donovan thinks about those reminders every time he let his gaze linger just a little too long, when heart aches just a little more by those who surround him everyday.

He swallows hard, his throat feeling full of cotton. "I'm not lying." Despite his best attempt to play it off cooly, the stiffness of his posture remains. He listens to Adam sigh, "Alright, alright whatever you say, man."

 

* * *

 

 

He did lie, of course. 

And Donovan has never been more mentally strung up the days following that. It's stupid how much distress that one little _thing_ was as compared to the very visceral and persistent possibility of getting shanked or torn apart by the dogs. He throws himself harder into his working mornings, knuckles worn white when he held his pick-axe, tuning out the voices of others around him while he works, pushing to see how much he could get done in five hours. It nearly does the trick.

The rest of the day however, he has only himself to focus on.

He sits and thinks about _it_ . The idea of somebody finding out about _it_ was terrifying. _It_ laid itself deep down within him, something that felt off and twisted, threatening to let just anyone know if he wasn't careful enough. He tells himself _it_ wasn't his fault. Day by day surrounded by the same too wide grins, and rough voices and damn intimidating heights and builds. When they all look at him they did it with sick curiosity or an indifference Donovan finds even more unnerving. These boys, these killers, these kids who were down here just like him, they did this to him.

No, no, that's not just it. As much grief as these kids cause him, they were not there at trial. They were not there as Donovan tried looking each of the jurors in the eye as his fate was decided by a corrupt, paranoid system. They had taken his life away, and threw him down here so these teenagers could further fuck with him, to punish him, and to expose _it_.

Expose _him_.

He was _tired_.

And lonely.

Later in life, Donovan would go on to denounce the idea of a God or some rapture, seemingly as impossible and as heartbreaking the idea of escaping Furnace. But for now he prays and hopes that there must be someone good out there to look out for him.

(Even though he ends those prayers feeling less deserving of a boy that he wishes he could be.)

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey.”  
  
Donovan raises his head up, propping his chin on crossed arms over his knees while the cold metal steps of the staircase press into his back. At thirteen he finds himself sat on those steps in the hopes of avoiding everyone that day; he didn’t want to talk. As much as he appreciated Adam and Batek’s concerned glances and attempts to keep talking, to keep engaging him, he had to draw a line somewhere. To go so long isolated in deathly silence only served to make the constant cacophony of genpop fry and short circuit his brain into complete muck.

Hell, from the way his face was as swollen as a balloon and the fact he could still feel his pulse twitch underneath the bruise on his neck, he wasn’t in any position to do any talking anyway.  
  
“Hey,” Bodie repeats, looking down his nose at Donovan. “Was gonna give yous some space, considering your whole ordeal with the hole and shit, but boss wanted to pass something along.”  
  
“Does Ambrose want a fight?” Donovan asks, his voice hoarse and warbled from its disuse.  
  
Bodie seems to snort a laugh at the response, genuinely amused by the idea. There’s something quite charming about his laugh, smooth and low like a rumble in his chest. Bodie smiles at Donovan, flashing a mouth full of cracked teeth, causing the scar that runs through his lip to stretch with it. “Aw, it ain’t like that. Matter a fact, Pope wants to send his thanks to you. See, between you and me, those Leopards were getting a little too comfortable ‘round here and thanks to you, we got two less of them to worry about.”  
  
It is true that since Donovan was back from the hole, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any of his attackers hanging around. Plenty of their gang gave him dirty looks, yeah, but knowing that he was the reason why they were gone didn’t ease his paranoia. If anything, Bodie’s confirmation filled him with dread. The last thing he wants is Ambrose - or worse, Santiago - keeping tabs on him.  
  
“Anyways, you don’t gotta worry about them right now,” Bodie continues, looking down and scuffing his paper shoes against the dirty rock. “For your generosity, Pope thought it’d be nice to give some gym privileges over to you. Now that yous on his good side right now.” His glance flickers back to Donovan, carefully analysing his face.  
  
Now that’s something Donovan always found himself puzzled over: why wasn’t Bodie Ambrose’s right-hand man? Kevin’s a right lunatic, and as much as he beaten, and tortured to get a response of what he wanted to hear, it was always Bodie just behind doing all the quick thinking and sweet talking to sway someone over. It makes Donovan wonder if waiting the long game was part of his plan. Or perhaps, if he truly was fine watching cautiously from the sidelines, letting Ambrose mitigate the ticking time bomb he chosen as lieutenant.  
  
Thing is, if he wasn’t part of a murderous gang that was responsible for the very creation of the prison the two of them were standing in, Donovan could almost pretend Bodie was a stand up guy to hang around with.  
  
Donovan decides to humour him. “What else would I get, now that we’re all friends now?”  
  
Bodie laughs out loud at that, of which echoes across the yard. “You _real_ funny, D. Frankly, I don’t even think you even that interested in us. Don’t get me wrong, you did us a favour, but we both know just one scrap that you just _so_ happened to win don’t make us anything now.”  
  
Was Donovan getting rejected from a gang or was he getting rejected from a highschool senior who didn’t do labels? Neither idea was particularly appealing to him, but he supposes that the main difference is that he wasn’t planting a kiss on Ambrose's lips and hoping that it would all work out for true love.  
  
(And what a mortifying mental image, there’s surely some sort of brain bleach around here that can make Donovan forget he’s ever conjured that one up.)  
  
There must’ve been some way Bodie caught onto Donovan’s train of thought. His eyes narrow and he crosses his arms, casually adding on, “Unless you want me to let my boy know that y’all want the two of yous to get real… close.”  
  
Okay, no, _fuck_ Bodie.  
  
Donovan bites down on his tongue, the muscles in his jaw tensing, as he holds up his hands in defence. Bodie’s trying to get a rise out of of him in same cheap shot that every goddamn guy in here defaults to, and the thought of even being remotely close to _Ambrose-fucking-Pope_ in that kinda way turns his stomach sour. “You’re right, I don’t know what I was expecting. Just tell him I said thanks.”  
  
“You sure about that?”  
  
 _I would literally rather die_ , is the reply that pops into his head, but he doesn’t need Bodie to take that at face value. Donovan stands up from his perch, his back straight and hands clenching themselves into fists. “I’m sure you’d better get the fuck out of my face real quick.”  
  
Donovan’s shot up these last couple of years, just an inch shy of Bodie’s own towering height, and while he hasn’t gotten the chance yet to test out that gym yet, he’d certainly gained his weight in lean muscle. Even with the swollen bruises on his face, he could see through all of it enough to see the smug expression on Bodie’s face slip for a moment when Donovan takes a step closer.

“Ain’t no thing, big guy,” Bodie says, regaining his composure and offering an almost lackadaisical smile in return, holding up a hand that stops Donovan in his tracks. “I’m gon’ let you brood, but hey, now you know where you can find us.”

Bodie takes a step back, before turning on his heels and making his way back towards the rest of his gang, leaving Donovan standing alone in the dust.

 

* * *

 

 

As time will have it, Donovan comes to knows himself to every fine tuned note of his being, and he notices his physical changes most of all.

There are no true mirrors in Furnace. Every so often in the kitchen, he takes a good hard look at the brandished silver appliances, making out his blurry, distorted reflection on stained counter tops.

Somehow, he knows exactly how he is perceived.

Always too tall for his age, always watched under prying eyes that falter and turn when he meets their gaze right back. He knew this as a child, but until now, never knowing how to manipulate that perception for his own safety.

When he straightens his back and squares his shoulders, he is able to cut through crowds, nudge and push his way through without much resistance. When his face rests stony, his eyes cold and indifferent, there is nothing to comment on. He pumps iron in the gym and runs up and down flights of stairs. Hell, he welcomes the residual soreness the morning after as a testament of his endurance.

And yet, standing at fifteen now, there is one thing he is curious about.

Donovan digs his nails into the flesh of his palms, threatening to puncture the skin as he feels the slow coarse drag of a blade scrape up the back of his scalp. He bites down a hiss as a thumb swipes against the open nick at the nape of his neck.

“My bad,” drawls the low voice of his barber. The pressure reaffirms itself on the nick once more, a bead of blood trailing down and mingling with the sweat of his skin. He knows better not to squirm at the sensation. “You’re done. Tried something new this time.”

“And you had to try it on me,” Donovan says flatly. His response is met with a stinging slap across the back of his neck.

“Boy, fuck you. I’m the one with the knife.” The hand pushes his head forward, a little less forcibly this time. Oli was never one to be offended by Donovan’s deadpan.

Standing up from the floor with aching knees and dusting the locks off of his trousers, Donovan tentatively runs his hands through his newly sheared crop of hair, looking back at Oli quizzically. “You’re gonna have to tell me what this ‘new’ shit you did to my hair, though.”

Oli wipes the hair and blood of his blade off onto his pants, shrugging nonchalantly. “Fixed your line up. Not much else I can do with the rest of your head without my supplies up top, but that shit needed something to be done.”

Donovan scoffs, “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“Your hairline looked like a jungle floor,” Oli shoots back, a hint of a smirk touching his lips. He bursts out laughing at the stink eye he receives in return, standing up to clap a hand on Donovan’s back. “Listen, compared to all these other little boys running around with their busted looks, you’re one of the only guys in here who actually gives a shit.

“Makes you look,” Oli pauses for a second, pulling a face as though chewing on the words he carefully plans to say. “...Palatable? Yeah.”

The statement doesn’t completely process at first, Donovan’s blank face a show of his misunderstanding. Oli tuts, stepping back and scuffing his shoe against the floor to scrape off the tufts of hair sticking to his soles. “What, you want me to say you look like a clown?”

Well, no.

He never really expected anybody to comment on his “palate” so to speak, much less than the fact he looks better than most down here. A weird splutter of pride sits snug and tight in his chest at that.

He’s not quite ready to admit that to Oli though.

“I just,” Donovan starts. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use words with more than two syllables.”

There’s an eternity of stillness, only for the begrudging smile Oli gives Donovan is almost friendly enough, but the message was clear: _don’t try pushing it, kiddo_. It’s enough to make Donovan dart his hands up to surrender, quickly taking a step backwards to the direction of the entryway, simply muttering under his breath; “Jokes, jokes, jokes, man.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Huh, Oli fixed your hairline,” Batek points out as Donovan drops his tray onto the table, sliding onto the bench beside him 

“Christ alive, Bat,” Donovan sputters, running a hand along his shaved head. “You really were gonna let me just run around with a fucked up line up all these years?”

From across the table, Adam snorts his laughter into his cup of water, eyes twinkling with affectionate humour while Batek shrugs, scooping a heavy spoonful of slop to chew on to avoid answering.

“It wasn’t fucked up, I’ll give you that.” Adam says, taking the lead. “But y’know, it’s different,” he says, gesturing towards Donovan’s head with a flourish of his spoon. “Good different, not worse different.”

That little flutter of pride returns at the sound of that.

“Apparently I look a little more palatable, not that’s ever been a problem for my pretty mug,” Donovan jokes.

Batek snickers at that for a moment, before veering the conversation back to the latest rumour he heard milling around genpop. But, underneath the table Donovan feels Adam’s foot press against his own, and when he glances up, he catches Adam’s lingering glance a second longer before looking away.

He doesn't move hit foot, though.

 

* * *

 

 

Donovan isn’t sure when he turned sixteen.

The transition might have happened when he was fast asleep, the most predictable and boring answer of them all. But time was fickle down here, and he had no way of proving the clock hadn’t struck midnight during hard labour, or meal time, or the exact blast of a lockdown siren.

Despite Adam’s insistence that they were in the holiday season—Donovan going along with him—deep down as they conspired to build their own Charlie Brown Christmas tree, he would wonder if this is when his birthday would sneak up on him.

For all intents and purposes, it was a lost cause to ever pinpoint when exactly he turned sixteen, and it wasn’t like the information would do him much good in the future either.

Still though, it would’ve been nice to have known.

After all, Donovan is sixteen when it all comes crashing down on him.

 

* * *

 

 

Like most nights in Furnace, there was no grand plan of escape. There are no adrenaline fuelled heartbeats, no cunning and perfectly hidden surprise waiting to be unveiled, no worries about blabbering inmates and no cheeky grins that had to be stifled away from attention this time.

There simply was lights out, and a waiting game of trying to outlast the night into a new morning.

So there certainly was no worse case scenario Donovan had planned when they took Adam away.

As soon as that continuous screech of an alarm pried Adam and Donovan from their pitiful sleep, blinding their cell in an overlay of the deepest hue of red, they do not say a word to each other. As the noisy shuddering wheezes became louder and louder, punctuated by the heavy footed steps of their entourage, it seems too awful of a nightmare to believe it would actually happen to them. They tried so hard to go back on the down low again, to go back to scraping on by, to hushed whispers and breathless prayers.

The footsteps grow louder, like gunshots with each thud growing close. They must have been caught, and the warden lulled them into a false sense of security only to have retribution stood in waiting at their door.

Still, Adam goes out with a fight. It couldn't have been done any other way. His attempts to land blow for blow on those mammoths of men in pressed pinstripe suits were impressive, given as he keeps an iron grip of a fist clenched around the rusting bed frame of their bunk bed. He succeeds in getting at least one good desperate kick in, drops of black blood spraying onto Donovan's sheets as the blacksuit wrestles to wrench Adam out of the top bunk.

Adam wails, his screams deafening in the silence of the blood watch. They echo off the walls, they echo in Donovan's head, bouncing around in circles with no end of ceasing in sight. Adam has no poetic last words in his screech, yet the sheer desperation of it forces the prison from their isolation in their thoughts in order to listen to him. It is so similar to a scream Donovan once heard previously, familiar in its choked sobs and plea for help. The last time he heard that kind of scream, he had the choice to either stay behind, or to act upon the impulse that entered into his head.

This is just as familiar a situation that forces Donovan out of his covers. Instead of the precise swing of a candlestick, he outstretches his empty hand out to Adam with a frenzied face full of snot and tears.

Adam reaches back.

And with a powerful yank from the blacksuit, he misses Donovan's hand completely. Instead, whipping his arms around and digging his fingers into the sharp red walls of the cell.

Never in his life did Donovan ever hear the sound of fingernails snapping and breaking just like that.

Yet, a lifetime and the blare of the morning alarm later, he now has five new scars full of dark drying stains inside his cell to commemorate the moment he did.

 

* * *

 

 

He feels the weight of his mattress dip at the foot of the bed, and a hand on his leg. He’s surprised he notices any of this, really, his head feeling so, so heavy on his pillow, his eyes dull and glassy, a numbness wracking through his body, shutting everything other than the hole in his stomach.

“Carl,” Batek says through a voice sounding too shot, too warped that for a moment Donovan thinks he’s been hallucinating this entire time. He blinks, and glances at Batek hovering over him, seeing bloodshot eyes and the loose skinned, deflated look of Batek’s pained face and is confronted with reality once again.

“You gotta get up, man,” Batek urges. He squeezes Donovan’s calf, his thumb rubbing in smooth ministrations meant to soothe.

Donovan’s vision loses focus, slides back over to the wall once more.

Down in the yard is the blast of a suits shotgun, pellets clattering against the metal underbelly of the platform just outside. Batek jumps at this, his hand squeezing Donovan tight once more. Donovan doesn’t react, he can’t react at all, because if he lets himself do that, he’s going to have to address the molotov cocktail of emotions primed and waiting in his heart, and if that gets ignited, well, he doesn’t want to have Batek wrestle him off the ledge of level eight.

A burst of pain blooms in his leg and despite himself, Donovan yelps, clutching where Batek just pinched him hard. He feels the muscles in face twist and clench, but when he goes to stare daggers at Batek, he’s met with desperate tears.

“You gonna need to get up man, ‘cause if the suits find you lying here all day, no way they aren’t gonna pump you full of lead. And I can’t have that, I refuse to let that happen, I refuse to let you let that happen, you hear me?” Batek rambles, almost foaming at the mouth as he maintains unbroken eye contact with Donovan, interrupting himself with his sniffles and cracks in his voice. Donovan allows Batek to pull him to sit upright, let’s him fix him up straight, tilt his chin up high and rests his hands on his shoulders, all the while still talking.

“We’re going downstairs, we going to hard labour, and we just ride out the day again, you hear? We ride out the day and I’ll be waiting for you right here.”

“He’s gone.” It’s the first thing Donovan’s said at all, and it’s the first time he finally admitted it out loud. His vision blurs and before he can parse what’s happening, hot tears are streaming down his cheek, and he finds himself pressed against the crook of Batek’s neck as warm arms wrap him up in the tightest hug he’s ever felt in his life.

“I know,” Batek mutters, “I know.”

Donovan clutches onto him like a lifeline, his grip threatening to rip holes in Batek’s stained jumpsuit as his heart swells and twist, ready to ignite and burst. Batek meets him there with his own grief, and it’s not so much as water to put out the fire rather than it is an acknowledgement of another imminent explosion.

It’s just enough to keep him from falling.

“Ride out the day, Carl. I’ll be waiting for you, I swear.”

 

* * *

 

 

Batek never means to lie, is the thing. 

This is what Donovan has to remind himself as he breathes the stale, unused air up here, his legs around one of the posts of the railing, resting his forehead against the cool rusted metal. Looking down, the vertigo seems to clamp his stomach in a vice, his breath catching short in his throat.

_Dropping like flies, each and every one of us, who's going to miss you now?_

The sudden harshness of that thought damn near electrocutes him, filling him with a burst of fearful energy that he doesn’t realise he’s scrabbling back until his back rams into the bars of a vacant cell. Donovan stands up on shaky legs, apologising in his head each step down back to his cell.

 

* * *

 

 

It feels like a lifetime later when Donovan climbs shakily up onto the top bunk, he can still feel the divot in the mattress Adam had left. He regrets not climbing up sooner, when the mattress could still have been warm, his smell not yet faded.

When he closes his eyes with his back leaned flushed against the wall late that night, he thinks about all of the things he did not do, and the questions that he did not ask. In his mind, his memory plays with these gaps between each moment like frames in film. His imagination fills them in cruelly; with images of tenderness and compassion that could’ve been more than real in this life, snatched away in an instant.

His heart bleeds and it aches so profoundly raw he’d only ever felt once before. You can’t trick your heart into such pain if you haven’t loved with its entire being.

 _This is the end all truth of your life,_ he thinks to himself. _And now that you’ve learnt it, why go through it all again?_

He can’t find it within himself to disagree.

His last thought before knocking out, is to almost fool himself into believing that who he truly loved was lying in that divot, snoring soundly right next to him.

**Author's Note:**

> i dont have anything to say other than the fact this shit hurt to write


End file.
